Jericho Chronicles: Book 1
by Tasmanian Tiger 221
Summary: Being redone. The great wars have impacted and twisted lives together. In the common intrest of survive, alliances will be formed and broken, all in the name of survival. RR
1. Prologue

A/N: After a hiatus of refining my writing style a bit and realizing the series wasn't goin' where I wanted it to, I decided to start fresh. Still, RR. Also, when you review (for god's sake review), please tell me if my writing style has gotten better or worse. I'm open to any comments, except flames of course.

_**The Jericho Chronicles: Book 1**_

_Prologue_

Today is the age of the extraordinary. Today is when it would be believed that the human race would be nomads of the stars, roaming the universe in peace. Today was when man would come together, in a common yearn for knowledge, to explore the grand universe they called home.

Or at least, that was what it should have been. Today, man is in a dark time. Over the millennia, they had come together to traverse the stars and learn. They saw new and wonderful things that both baffled and amazed them. They were finally coming together as a species; into a golden age of peace. But, as every empire before it has, the human empire soon reached its highest point, and quickly fell apart; losing so much including the very technology that allowed them to cross the stars and survive in their cosmic dwellings. As of late, the galaxy has descended into a dark age. A dark age where man has once again picked up its lain-down weapons and strived to take what they believe is rightfully theirs. Now in this Dark Age, man resumes its conflict, with new and terrifying weapons. They have made massive war machines, many stories tall and many tons heavy, to wield these new horrifying weapons. These great iron warriors are now the supreme weapon of the battlefield. There has been many a warrior, soldier, and civilian who only saw a luminous shadow appear on the horizon, before they were vaporized into dust. The titanic battles have altered the very _universe _with their presence; destroying lives while giving birth to others. It seemed that these dark times would only get darker, as humans continued to perfect their tools of destruction. It seemed that they would be their own downfall, as they created more darkness and shadow that would eventually swallow the universe into total, permanent blackness…


	2. Chapter 1: The Salvager

A/N: If you just went to the latest chapter, being confused about why there is only chapter one up, go back to the prologue and read the author's note.

_Chapter 1: The Salvager_

_**Malachon Dunes**_

_**Oridon,**_

_**July 13, 3015**_

As stated earlier, the wars both took and made lives in its fiery forge. One of the many lives it created was that of a salvager.

And oh how he loathed it.

He, as you have probably already guessed, is a salvager. He had always been. He had at one point attempted to count how many times he had put on his tattered, torn salvage pack and mounted his barely functioning jeep out to scour the bloodied battlefields of others, but had quickly lost count. He had gone out almost every day into the wastes for the past 12 years.

He was 22.

His jeep sputtered across the dunes, kicking up grains of sand and other dust particles behind him while constantly losing their weak grip. The jeep was in bad shape to say the least. The body was chipped away to the point you could see its mechanical entrails and the body so dented it barely seemed like it had previously possessed a more geometric form. The tires were covered in a large assortment of patches and plugs where shards of metal, weaponry and _bones_ had punctured them at the salvage sites. The engine was a rusty quagmire of parts that were constantly replaced to keep in just barely working order. The job had been rough on the old car, but it had pulled him through thick and thin, from the standard wear and tear that came with the job to the semi frequent encounters with bandits. He called it _The Good Samaritan_, and his mechanic steed had never failed him.

Much like the _Samaritan, _the job had been rough on him as well. His salvage clothing had been reduced to rags that only by constant patching kept the lethal grains of sand out. The dim green goggles he wore were chipped and cracked from assorted pebbles and bullets, despite the lenses being continuously changed out and cleaned. Despite the best he did to maintain it though, the sand stuck to it, and everything he ever looked at, he saw was through a thin screen of grainy earth. The desert was a harsh place to work, but it was all there really was on this god-forsaken rock.

Oridon, a backwater desert world located roughly halfway between the worlds of New Kyoto and Solaris, wasn't on any major trade routes or space lanes. The few minor ones than ran by the system rarely had business here. The only thing of any interest to spacers the planet had was a _very _small space station that was basically the modern equivalent of the gas stations of past eras. It had a somewhat more important on the political side, as it was one of the boarder worlds that belonged to House Steiner, on the line dividing them from house Marik and the free worlds league. There was a small garrison on planet and one warship in orbit, but it was really just for show. The main military might was on New Kyoto behind it. Oridon was a dead _rock_ that had barely any tactical use other than a political border. The military presence had once been larger, but after facing many small raids by house Marik who attempted to gain a beachhead on the planet's surface. They had always been pushed back, but things were looking grim. If Marik truly wanted the planet, they could secure it in 24 hours flat. On the geographical side (another reason no one wanted the dust ball) the world itself was 94.2 desert, the only places able to support the few large scale, permanent settlements were the farthest poles that while not frozen, provided a livable area with a good amount of water but few plants and wildlife. The other areas were some tropical spots known as "green zones" on the equator where a few hardy imported plants and animals managed to survive with little in the way of water. The Terran rattlesnake had done notably well, along with other animals already acquainted with the desert. The small human population on the planet was made up of people who needed a cheap, one way ticket off Solaris and didn't care where they wound up at. They would soon learn of their mistake and do their best to get to get off planet; generally to much comparatively better neighbor New Kyoto. However, word never really got out about how bad the planet was due to how few people actually managed to earn enough money for a ticket off the hellish world.

Movement on the world was extremely limited. Due to the high altitude reaching sand storms that where strong enough to shred through ferro fibrious, all air travel had been virtually abandoned. The settlements were only just able to survive by sending ground based convoys between the equator and the poles. The poles were able to give fresh water, while the equator was able to supply crops and food stuffs. The mineral materials needed to survive came from small settlements located in the wastes wherever deposits were found. The convoys moving resources around would travel several hundred miles to get from one settlement to the next. Oridon was a large world and with so few settlements that the convoys isolated routes would often attract the unwanted kind of attention.

With so many criminals and mercenaries coming to the world from solaris, it was no surprise when reports of convoys disappearing and unknown groups seen battling each other over what they claimed to be their territory. These "gangs" would makes small camps in mountains, caves and other features near trade routes. They would then launch attacks against the convoys, as few routes existed due to hazards such as sandpits and "hotspots" that would actually boil the crew inside the convoy's vehicles. As the bandits learned the routes, more and more transports disappeared and the companies who owned the transports, going bankrupt, had no choice but to take action. A few defense squads were formed, but they were always overwhelmed and their captured equipment added to the bandits' ever growing arsenal. Some of the better bandits had actually been seen in the possession of mechs, giving them a huge advantage over the standard convoy's weaponry. This made them much more of a danger to salvagers.

When bandits caught a convoy, they would generally practice a hit and run strategy. They would capture, kill any survivors and evac the main, easily moved valuables back to their base and then later come back to the sites to pick up the crumbs they missed aka strip anything off things that wouldn't move. That way, if there was any response unit coming after them, they wouldn't be seen and have no worry of being traced back to their camp. Handling lowly and under armed convoy escorts was one thing, but the local garrison would storm a camp if someone found one. When the gangs started getting sloppy at the beginning, they quickly whipped themselves back into shape when there was news of several discovered bandit camps being raided by the military. This strategy gave salvagers, the vultures of the battlefields, a small window to go in and strip the "fresh meat" that was left, and take it to be sold at the settlements' markets.

Smoke loomed in the horizon, the sign he had been looking for. Judging by the hight and width of the smoke cloud, the action happened about a half hour ago; just enough time for the bandits to get their main prize, and make their temporary retreat.

The salvager stamped down the pedal and accelerated toward the smoke, eager to get there before any other salvagers. As the sand and dust whipped around him, he noted a strong wind off in the distance. It wasn't coming his way, but the wind patterns on the planet were sporadic at best. He would have to be quick, lest he be caught in a sandstorm that would tear the meat from his bones.

As the site of the ambush loomed in the distance, he began to see the outlines of several wrecks in the distance. The site of the battle was littered with assorted pieces of metal and other debris caused by the apparently vicious fighting. Shell casings from weapons ranging from side arms to autocannon rounds littered the ground. Bits of armor and other metal components lay tossed about, still mildly glowing with white heat. _Fresh indeed,_ he thought as he scanned the area. He counted the metallic corpses of two armors. He brought his jeep to a grunting stop at the first. It was a _centipede_ model hovercraft that had had its stocky laser turret blown clean off, most likely by a mild explosive round. The cockpit was open and there were tracks leading away from it. After a few meters, the tracks unsurprisingly ended at a bullet ridden corpse. _Another poor sap gunned down by the bandits, _he mused. The salvager crawled into the cockpit of the disabled vehicle and began to pry off the coverings on the control board, hoping to find something of value in the mess of wires and control boards. After about 3 minutes, he had recovered several odd microchips and other electronic components. The materials were military grade, bearing the emblem of several major industrial companies, all of which were major suppliers. Tossing the fact aside as irrelevant and giving one last quick search into the small space of tangled wired and other components fused by the heat, he decided he had taken everything of value from the vehicle. He put down his finding in the back of his jeep, careful not to break anything, and began to walk to the other wreck.

It was an older model tracked APC that mounted a large multi-barrel machine gun on a turret mount. The spent shell casings surrounding it indicated it fired roughly 30 millimeter armor piercing rounds that would easily shred through light armor. Strangely, the vehicle was for the most part undamaged, with only a few bullet holes and dents. As he moved toward an open hatch, he began to see something reflective sticking out of the hatch. As he walked closer, he saw it was the barrel of an abandoned rifle. He stepped through the hatch, and saw bodies littered across the inside of the APC. From the way it looked, the APC began to offload its troops when bandit infantry had stormed them, forcing them back into their metal coffin and tried taking over the transport by force. What didn't make sense was why the transport was still here. When transports where in the shape that this one was after a battle, they were the first things that was rolled offsite. He proceeded into the direction of the cockpit. He stepped around the bloodied corpses, taking any valuables off them as he went. By the time he reached the cockpit, he had a large collection of battered small arms and bloody personal equipment.

The cockpit itself was blocked off by a reinforced steel door, which cut out the idea of using a cutting torch to get it open. Still though, bandits had mercenary techs that would be able to hack basic locking systems. A small control panel was mounted next to the door and showed signs of having been tampered with. The salvager dug into his pack and pulled out a basic screen and miniature keyboard he used for hacking. He connected them to the console and pressed a small activation key on the side of the console. The basic screen he had attached to it began to show the lines of code running throughout the console's processor and eventually came to a halt at a screen that read _Insert Steiner Authorization Code. _That explained why they couldn't get it open. This vehicle used military grade software that often had booby traps and failsafes the average hacker couldn't overcome. Luckily for the salvager, he had once been at the scene of a raid against a found bandit camp and had managed to salvage some basic Steiner hardware. After several months of hacking, he had finally managed to break the code system. What would take the average tech a few days to hack, he could do it in a few minutes. He set about his work bypassing firewalls and deactivating failsafes, the lines of code quickly breaking down in front of him. He heard a satisfying hiss as the door to the cockpit came open, revealing its content.

The small space contained two stations; one for the driver and one for the turret's operator. The driver's station remained empty, while the gunner's station held a body. The corpse in the chair was a man clad in a worn leather jacket, an odd choice of clothing for the desert. At the man's side were a canteen and a large rectangular pistol that, judging by the size of the barrel, fired off a high power shell that would normally be found in rifles. Looking at how worn and dirty the corpse's clothes were, it was probably the body of some merc who sealed himself in the cockpit and died of overheating. Thinking it might be worth something the salvager reached out for the weapon. But the moment he felt the worn leather on the handle in his palm he heard a voice.

"Hands off buddy, that's mine".

The voice was dry and gritty, an obvious sign of dehydration. The salvager looked up, surprised to see the corpse's eyes looking down at him. On instinct he was already pulling away and drawing his own weapon, a compact, snub-nosed submachine gun. The rusty weapon could put out 12 rounds a second and its firm build made it useful in melee combat. Despite the weapon's menacing appearance, the figure continued to simply look at him with one eye, not even turning his head to fully look at him. The eye pointed toward him ran up and down the salvager, sizing him up as if the man were looking at him in the way he would any other person. The stiff figure stretched his arm to his canteen. Gratefully, he brought it up to his mouth and took a large swig before gulping it down and clearing his throat. He never took his eyes off the salvager. "I'm surprised you got through that door, it's rigged with military class codes ya know," the semi-refreshed voice croaked, "Steiner don't like anyone getting into their stuff without their saying so". The salvager remained silent, keeping his weapon trained on the figure.

He had never encountered a survivor on a salvage site before. On the job, the only people besides himself he saw were other salvagers and the fatalities of the attack. What happened here was basically unheard of. "Bet you're wondering how I survived aren't ya?" the man continued. The salvager slowly nodded his head and the man pulled back a bit of his jacket, revealing a network of small metal plates and small translucent tubes that had something running through them. Through the tubes, ran a clear liquid, probably some king of cold liquid. To the salvager, it looked like a mess of blood vessels. "Got a mess o' cooling tubes and armor plates runnin' through my jacket. Those along with my old canteen here I've kept myself alive, and you just woke me up from my nap."

The salvager decided to finally respond, "you looked pretty dead to me."

The figure grinned a bit, "looks can be deceiving, as some wise old fat guy once said. But enough banter. The name's Randal, people call me Randy. You?"

The salvager lowered his weapon a bit, not enough so he couldn't respond to an attack but it being lowered a bit made him seem like less of a threat. "I'm Samuel. I think you're the only survivor left. The entire convoy has either been taken away or to damaged to repair."

"Not that big of a deal," the man replied, "I'm just the hired gun for this transport. Pilot went up to join the others to fight off the bandits while I sealed myself in here. Crazy sonova gun that guy was. The bandits tried to get in, but they couldn't crack the Steiner codes and gave up." He turned to gesture to the driver station, "the vehicle is drivable, but when I locked down this section, I locked down the controls and the radio. I don't know any of the codes except the one to open the door. I figured I'd wait till it was dark and then try to find some radio I could call for help with on one of the other wrecks. Then you showed up".

"So where does that put me?" Samuel asked.

"Well Sammy,"

"Samuel."

"Well Sammy" he continued, ignoring him, "I'll tell you what. If you can hack the controls for this puppy and get us out of here, you can have the vehicle and everything in it and..," he brought his fingers to his chin in thought, scratching some stubble on his face before continuing, "and I owe you a drink. Whadda ya say?" He finished the sentence with putting his hand out toward him

Salvaging an entire vehicle was one of, if not the, best prizes a salvager could get. He would have to be an idiot to pass this up. He shifted his gun's weight to one hand and shook the gritty hand, getting some sand on his own. "Sorry bought that Sammy," Randy said, grinning, I'm not exactly the cleanest guy around here". After offering a quick but wary smile in return, he also made it clear that he would finish looking over the site and move his jeep into the small vehicle compartment on the APC before they would be going anywhere. Randy agreed saying, "do what ya want, I'm in no rush," and even offered to drive his jeep into the APC for him. When he saw the wary look on Samuel's face about lending him the vehicle he reminded Samuel that even if he did try to steal it, the turret on the APC was still active so he wouldn't get far anyway. Satisfied, Samuel sat down at the pilot consol, and proceeded to hack the system. Once again, he was done in minutes and the engines slowly hummed to life. Finished, he headed back outside to find his unexpected ally pulling the jeep into the vehicle bay.

He surveyed the area of the battle; just to be sure he hadn't missed anything. The sands of Oridon could bury an object the size of an _Overlord_ class dropship in a matter of minutes. Satisfied he wasn't missing anything, he began to head back to the APC, passing some rocks along the way. Out of the corner of his eye, a rock glistened for a moment, as if it were _metallic._ Samuel quickly changed direction and walked toward the rock. He got on his knees and began using a salvage brush to wipe away the sand. As he wiped it away, he realized it wasn't a rock at all, it was painted metal. He called Randy over, who quietly muttered, "no way," before be brushed away some sand to reveal what looked like a handle. He grabbed it with both hands and gave it a strong twist and a hatch hidden by the earth snapped open. Light came into the space and silhouettes of giants formed. Samuel took a small flashlight out of his pack and sent a small beam of light into the hole. There was a ladder going from the hatch to the floor, a distance of about twenty meters. There were four large objects, but the shadows were too thick to see what they were without getting closer. Putting the flashlight in his teeth, he crawled down through the hatch itself, Randy quickly following. He let himself drop the last foot down and landed with a clang on the cool metal floor with Randy stepping down beside him.

Randy let out a low whistle at the sight.


	3. Chapter 2: Broken Fang

_Chapter 2: Broken Fang_

_**Boreal Reach Arena**_

_**Solaris VII,**_

_**April 30, 3065**_

**The ****_Archer_**** prowled its way through the battlefield, taking shots of opportunity and keeping to the side, preferring to pick off its targets from long range. It moved backward towards one of the large arches that helped contribute to the roman coliseum theme. The mech moved backward, lining up one more shot before it went behind the decided defense. The pilot's attention was placed solely on the shot.**

**And that was mistake number one.**

**One should always remember that in any battlefield one has to always watch his back He didn't even notice the blip come up behind him on his radar. The ****_Archer _****was now two tons lighter as armor was burned away by lasers from the unseen opponent. Mistake number two came when, instead of moving toward cover, it turned to face its opponent. Finally, as the attacker launched a wave of missiles at its cockpit, the third mistake of turning off the auto eject in case of a mislaunch became apparent. The ****_Archer _****disappeared in a blue energy cloud from where its core overloaded. Smoke curled in eerie plumes above the metal corpse.**

**As the blue energy dissipated, the predator emerged from its hiding place. It began to look in other directions, seeking new prey. Fierce and battle scarred, the predator was a ****_Timberwolf_**** model battlemech. Known to the IS as the ****_Madcat_**** and weighing in at 75 tons, the mech was the type that only years ago conquered and struck fear into the hearts of soldiers and civilians everywhere in the IS. They would attack in packs of three to five, decimating all in their way. Brutally they would use teamwork to conquer and destroy. Then this machine had hunted with others like it in a grand crusade that would affect the universe for centuries to come.**

**But that was then, and this was now.**

**Now the great beast hunted alone, a wolf cut off from its pack. ****_Banished_**** from its pack for its deeds. Deeds that it had made believing that it was the last resort when in reality, it had been for naught. It wore the old scars from the event that occurred so many years ago. Its fangs were broken, its claws dulled. Even its inner qualities, its spirit and honor were nothing but taters of their former selves. With its spirit gone, everything it did was done in the manner of an automation; a machine that would do its job until finally it sputtered and died after so many dark and painful years. There was no honor in that life and therefore it deserved to die.**

**But no, it would continue for a few more years until that one fatal day when it finally either laid down and died, or was killed. Here, on this filthy world of Solaris VII, he would meet his end. He would die at the hands of some honorless freeborn scum, tired and broken. The only death one such as he deserved. He, Sig Ralson, exile of clan wolf, would pay for his crimes.**

**_Until then, _****he mused, ****_I live._**** He brought up a new target into his sights, a ****_Daishi, _****or better known to him as a ****_Dire Wolf._**** He fired his missiles again in a fiery rain that came down upon the unsuspecting target. The two mechs began circling each other, firing back and forth. Sig had been able to dodge most of the attacks, while the thick armor on the ****_Dire Wolf_**** just absorbed it. He watched as his many concentrated laser and missile strikes were only nibbling away at the armor. The ****_Dire Wolf's _****armor was like that bark of an older tree. The wood was thicker and harder to burn. More missiles impacted, merely singeing the surface but not actually blowing the metal off.**

**In a surprise move, Sig charged his ****_Madcat_**** toward his enemy, firing off lasers as he went. Bright globs of molten metal fell to the ground as lasers melted the armor the armor more and the molten puddle slowly began eating itself. The flaming sludge became a white hot acid that burned through the intact armor. As the core began to overheat, a escape pod ejected from the ****_Daishi. _****Sig blasted away from the mech just before the reactor went critical, and blew out its remaining energy through the hole the melting armor had created in a magnificent blitzkrieg of molten armor that looked vaguely similar to a shotgun. There was a roar of applause as the opponent fell. That wasn't good; he was attracting too much attention. He brought his mech toward the edge of the arena, and surveyed his remaining competition.**

**The resistance added up to four mechs besides himself. Farthest from him were a ****_Summoner_**** and an ****_Atlas_**** who seemed to be in equal standing despite the weight difference. The ****_Atlas_**** launched barrage after barrage while its surprisingly nimble opponent dodged in and out of its fire, launching its own attack between dodges. The second was a crimson ****_Executioner_**** battling an older mech called a ****_Highlander._**** Despite its older age, it was able to evade most of the attacks that came from the blood red killing machine's mighty LBX20 cannons that had been fastened to its arms. ****_Odd, _****Sig mused,****_ that kind of loadout was never really put into use by the spheroids. _****After the war, even though the sphere had taken multiple clan mechs for their own use, the houses had never made many of the loadouts standard to the pure clan mechs. Set ups like that weren't seen even on the most elite military groups. There had been issues of "morality" or something like that about having the citizens of the sphere being protected by what had been annihilating them years earlier. Mercenaries were an exception, but most couldn't afford that kind of setup. The oddest fact of all was that during the match there hadn't been any talk about some war veteran or famous mech pilot. How'd this guy come out of nowhere with equipment like that was a mystery.**

**Sig quickly shrugged the thoughts off. Thinking too much got you killed. There was some wisdom behind the saying kill first, ask later. Unsurprisingly, the clan mech finally tagged its mark, and the antique was consumed in flames. Sig wasted no time in fling forward toward his new target. The enemy mech was smart enough not to turn toward him, allowing the powerful barrage of lasers, missiles, and other ballistic projectiles to hit its arm rather than its all important core. It quickly brought its torso twisting to meet him, barking its powerful cannons' demonic payload in his direction. Sig dodged, the shots grazing the armor on his left side. He jetted backward, putting range between himself and his target. The ****_Executioner_****'s LBX cannons would be ineffective at this range, forcing it to rely on its two large lasers for combat. ****_The pilot's not that smart, having a payload like that. Then again, maybe he's like me and can't afford replacement parts for all this weaponry or add onto it. _****The ****_Executioner_**** charged toward him, knowing it wouldn't have a chance at a range. Sig backpedaled, if those LBX cannons came into range, he would die a death of basically having a bullet larger than most minivans crush him. LBS rounds weren't explosive, only kinetic. Again, it was basically an anti-mech sawed-off shotgun. Because the rounds didn't have a slow moving heat signature, sensors on the mech couldn't "see" it and couldn't trigger an automatic survival pod launch. If a mech was fallen by one, the pilot's body would ****_not_**** be recoverable. It was the way he would wish to die if it happened though; die a quick death where he wouldn't leave any traces of himself on this god-forsaken torrent called a universe. ****_Not yet._**** Sig fired off his jets and jumped toward his opponent. The ****_Executioner_**** attempted to perform an attack to keep Sig from crushing it, but when it brought its battleship sized guns to bear, the target wasn't there. Sig had applied a small boost in midflight had sailed down behind his opponent.**

**Now normally, for a long range mech like Sig's ****_Madcat_****, this was the worst situation one could be in. Close range combat weapons were reserved for the larger, more heavily armored mechs. However, when one lacked a gun, he used a sword, when one lacked a sword, he used his ****_hands. _****Clan Wolf in its days as a warden clan had always made a point of mastering close range combat, when it was destroyed and reformed, the knowledge had been generally lost except for those who were loyal to the warden Wolves. Despite the fact they were still a "Clan", the new warriors were seen as outsiders who didn't deserve to share in the name of Clan Wolf. So, in order to stop the new crusader Wolf, they withheld the knowledge, sharing it amongst the ****_closest _****of the warden clan's allies. Much like the bones of the human body, battlemechs where structured by ferro fibrious beams that ran throughout the mech. Also like human bones, if a beam was broken, it could render an entire ****_limb_**** useless. Of course there was a defense against this, only a novice warrior invented an attack they couldn't protect themselves from, only the highest Clan Wolf warriors knew the technique. Sig torso twisted and accelerated his arm toward the waist gyro of the enemy mech. Even if he missed, he could still rake his lasers across it and do some damage. Now, he would let the enemy pilot allow his fear to try to run forward, too late, to evade the attack.**

**The ****_Executioner _****backpedalled.**

**Sig's hands froze on the joystick as he realized this opponent indeed knew the defensive strategy for the attack. The ****_Executioner _****crunched the arm in between its own and its torso. There was a sickening screech as Sig's ****_Madcat's_**** arm was torn away and a flurry of metal and fluid burst out of the wound. The ****_Madcat_**** was thrown onto its back and when Sig regained his bearings he realized he was looking down the barrel of the blood red ****_Executioner_****'s LBX cannon. There was a flash, and then Sig felt nothing.**

_**78**__**th**__** Street, Bardan's Market**_

_**Solaris VII,**_

_**May 5, 3065**_

**Sig gazed warily at the fruit stands surrounding him; he hadn't eaten in a couple days. He hadn't been broke after his loss at the hands of his surprising opponent, but it had taken all of his C-bills to recover ****_most_**** of his mech and get it to some basic operating efficiency. He didn't have any money left for food, but that was okay. Clanners were survivors. There had been several accounts of clanners living for up to several weeks without food. Sig knew he wouldn't starve, he would just be ****_hungry._**** He wouldn't steal though; there was no honor in that course of action. Freeborns weren't evil and deserved to be killed left and right. The Clans had generally avoided small towns or settlements with no real strategic value. They just didn't care about civilian casualties. 90 of the time there was a story on the news that talked about some clanners randomly killing civilians in some "poor defenseless little town", was when some idiot in the great houses' high commands thought they could "reenact Thermopylae" as it was called and make some brilliant morale raising stand at some random town. The Clans didn't want to waste time, so the used large area effective weapons that took out the house of the poor old woman on the news talking about the bloody massacre of her town. Normally the Clans ignored civies though. They would just go through some towns treads rolling on their way to their next targets. Sig had lost count of the number of times his unit had been on the way to a target and he had glanced down at some civilian structures to see some kid looking at them with eyes full of fear from the corner of some window.**

**Sig wasn't looking to start a massacre or riot, or anything. He was like them now, an honorless scumbag looking for a way to make a profit. He continued down the rows of stands looking at the food the vendors had for sale, trying to decide which would be most worth the price compared to the nutrition provided. He wandered into a small shop, a tiny electric bell sounding as he entered. He tasted the cool but stale air being blown from an old air recycler unit in the corner. It was an admittedly nice change from the heat outside. He walked amongst the rows of fruit, picking up one every once in a while and rolling it over in his hands, studying the ripeness and the price. He was looking over a Terran fruit called a cantaloupe when he felt a pressure on his shoulder.**

**He glanced to find the pressure was from a hand on his shoulder. It was well worn and leathery, covered in assorted tattoos and jewelry depicting skulls, spikes, and the like. Turning his head and running his eyes up the arm to finally settle his view on a round, fat face. The guy obviously ate a lot, and smoked a lot judging by his breath. Looking back on it, Sig would decide he dressed like an actor in some Spheroid history documentary talking about the twentieth century. Honestly, if Sig had a sense of humor, it would be hard not to laugh at the guy, they had come up with many new clothing styles since the prehistoric era his clothes had been styled from. The guy even had the thug voice slurring and all when he said, "you ain't thinkin bout' doin nothing in here now are ya? I saw ya lookin at the stuff round the shop, you're not thinkin of stealin anything from my customer's shop now are ya?"**

"**Customer?" Sig asked. He sounded distinctly nonchalant, he didn't care about some crook with poor grammar skills. "What does he pay some jerk like you for?"**

"**Watch it chum, I'm security for this area. If you keep disturbing the customers, I'm gonna have to kick you out of this fine establishment."**

"**Really? I'm not doing anything; it seems to me you're just some punk threatening people for money". People in the store were beginning to look at them from the corners of their eyes.**

"**You'll be leaving now sir." Sig heard the clink of a switchblade being drawn. Sig didn't give the thug a chance to respond. No, it wasn't like a movie where the good guy took the thug's wrist and twisted it. Sig grappled the man's head and heard the crack as he snapped the thug's meaty neck. The thug went down in a puddle and Sig bent down and retrieved the switchblade. He held the knife to the light, studying its surprisingly fine edge. The blade could easily have pierced his skin and killed him. He collapsed the blade and shoved it in his pocket, crouching to face the thug whose eyes were glaring at him with anger.**

"**I'll be keeping your knife, oh and don't worry about your spinal cord, if we live in the same time your outfit is from, you wouldn't be able to get it fixed." He stood up, walking towards the door. He walked into the heat leaving a murmuring group behind him.**

**He had walked across the street and began to enter the crowd when he saw a medical hovercraft and police vehicles coming down the street. He walked a few feet into the crowd when he heard some shouting, "hey! Hey! Wait up!" He turned to find some tall thin freeborn running up to him. "Hey thanks," he began to say, holding out his hand, "I'm Tim Freeman, thanks for taking care of that thug!" Sig looked down at the hand, confused. When the clans had formed, they'd reformed everything down to basic gestures. What a held out arm meant was a mystery to Sig. The man brought his hand down, frowning a bit. "Don't let that thug discourage you, he's been threatening me and some other shop owners for a while now…" He paused again, puzzled by the neutral look on Sig's face. "What's your name?" Sig paused, so what if some random freeborn knew his name, there were several other Sigs on the planet, what did it matter? **

"**Sig," he responded bluntly.**

"**So why didn't you buy anything from the store? It's not like the thug really matters about anything; well not anymore anyway."**

"**I'm broke."**

"**Oh?" the man said, confused. "Well I'll tell you what Sig, that little act meant my store is pretty much closed for the rest of the day. Why don't you let me lock up and you can come with me for some food and a place to sleep?"**

**Sig would never realize why he waited for the man to lock up.**

**He was glad he did though.**


End file.
